


Hathaway's Heart, Third Declension Nouns, and Other Oddities

by emungere



Series: Hathaway's Heart [2]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-04
Updated: 2012-04-04
Packaged: 2017-11-03 00:39:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/375129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emungere/pseuds/emungere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The nurses tell him later that Lewis contrived to be there just then by not leaving the hospital until he woke, barely leaving the room. It makes James's foolish heart slide right out of his grasp. He visualizes it, slippery with blood, floating near the ceiling. He decides they must've given him a lot of morphine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hathaway's Heart, Third Declension Nouns, and Other Oddities

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Life Born of Fire and probably also fairly confusing if you haven't seen it. 
> 
> Eternal thanks to louiselux for beta and britpick and obsessively watching the show with me!

James Hathaway is straight. He's had sex with women and enjoyed it, which seems like a pretty solid clue. He's a policeman; he knows these things. He also knows what people think, is aware of the broad fabric of the assumptions made about him, if not the finer threads. They don't ask if they're right. Apparently, it's more polite to giggle and whisper. 

It's more mature to gather round the coffee maker and wonder in hushed tones if he ever had sex with _that boy_ , his friend, the one who came to their attention when he turned his back to the altar and shot himself in the head. _Do you think they ever, well look at him, you know?_ He skates past them silently and ducks into Lewis's office. 

Lewis glances at him and then _looks_ at him, _looks_ out at the huddle in the hallway. For a moment, James is worried there will be a scene. The idea makes his stomach sink and his heart jump at the same time, but since Lewis is, always, the best of both worlds, he only shoots a disgusted look through the slatted blinds and starts bitching mildly about technology while James's internal organs settle back into their accustomed slots. 

James's heart would like it very much if Lewis stamped out there and scattered the gossips with a few biting words, but James knows his heart is a childish and poorly developed thing. His stomach is far more sensible, more tuned to social grace notes, more aware of consequences. 

*

The case progresses. James admits, eventually, to the lies he's told Lewis, to the depth of his involvement in Will's life and death. Will's girlfriend tries to burn him alive. It's an eventful week. 

When James wakes up in hospital, Lewis is the first thing he sees. He can't help smiling. Lewis only stays a moment, but it's enough: the ideal moment. 

The nurses tell him later that Lewis contrived to be there just then by not leaving the hospital until he woke, barely leaving the room. It makes James's foolish heart slide right out of his grasp. He visualizes it, slippery with blood, floating near the ceiling. He decides they must've given him a lot of morphine. 

They keep him overnight, and Lewis comes to fetch him in the morning. He brings coffee, James's favorite scone, raspberry, and a plastic carrier bag of fresh clothes. 

"Are _all_ your socks that color?" Lewis asks him. He sits in the chair and eats part of James's muffin while James goes about the surprisingly painful process of folding himself into his clothes. 

"No, sir. I have fuchsia ones, too." 

Lewis rolls his eyes and does not watch James pull on the things he's chosen: black jeans, the socks, white cotton underwear, white shirt. With his work shoes, currently in the cupboard near the door, it will make a fairly respectable outfit. His heart is hovering by Lewis's shoulder like an exceptionally buoyant puppy. 

James stands and covers a dizzy moment with a downward sweep of his hand that encompasses his now-clothed self. His lungs hurt. "Very nice, sir," he says. "Very fashion conscious." 

"Oh, stop. Get your shoes on." 

The shoes are a struggle, but soon he is triumphant, outside in the chilled, carbon-monoxide-rich air of the car park, scone and coffee warming him disproportionately. He settles himself in Lewis's car and touches the familiar worn patch on the armrest. He has been a passenger in this car more times now than in any other in his life. 

"I have a full spectrum, actually," he tells Lewis. He feels giddy, high on caffeine and sugar and warmth. 

Lewis frowns, is silent a moment. His face clears, and his eyebrows go up. "Of sock colors?" 

"Yes. But I need to do the wash soon." 

"So only the purple--"

"Lilac."

"Lilac ones were left." 

"Precisely, sir." 

"All mine are black." 

"Now I know what to get you for Christmas." 

"Don't you dare," Lewis says. He's smiling at the wet road in front of them. "Hold up. The lilac ones were left. Do you wear them in order? One color after another?" 

"Always." 

"You never do." 

"Upon my honor, sir." 

"What order?"

"Aqua, marigold, fuchsia, lilac." He thinks marigold is nice touch. Buttercup would be a more accurate description of the color, but marigold is more mellifluous. He'll think of them as marigold from now on. 

"Forget me not." 

"Sir?" 

"They're all flowers except aqua." 

James presses the lid of the takeaway cup to his lips, ironing out his smile. It's not often Lewis will play with him like this (Lewis would think of it as 'egging him on'). It's an apology Lewis doesn't owe him; it's an indulgence he doesn't deserve. 

"Forget-me-nots aren't aqua, sir." 

"Periwinkles?" 

"Generally thought to be periwinkle. Which is also not aqua." 

"Carnations."

"Dyed." The car rolls to a stop. "Sir, this is your building." 

"You're sharp. Ever thought of becoming a detective?" He gets no chance to answer before Lewis is out of the car and round to his side to hold his door open. "Come on. I'll take you back to your socks soon enough."

But not _very_ soon, not today. Lewis has pulled a bag from the back, and James recognizes it. He recognizes also the scrap of cloth escaping its top flap: his pajamas, flannel, yellow paisley. 

James allows Lewis to shepherd him inside and settle him on the sofa with a blanket over his knees like a poorly child. It's absurd with his work shoes on. He takes them off and digs through the bag. 

"No slippers?" he calls to Lewis. 

"Front pocket." 

There they are, bent double, leather soles now permanently creased. James smiles and slips them on. Lewis is making tea in the kitchen, and bacon. There are eggs by his elbow and a stack of brown bread on a plate. Shortly, the eggs are scrambled, the bacon crisped, the bread toasted and buttered, and Lewis serves it all up to him on a chipped white plate. Lewis sits next to him with his own plate, put his feet on the coffee table, and forks eggs into his mouth. 

"The smell of that buttered toast simply talked to him," James murmured. 

"Eh?" 

"It talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cosy parlour firesides on winter evenings, when one's ramble was over and slippered feet were propped on the fender." 

Lewis squinted at him. "I know that one." 

"The Wind in the Willows." 

"That's it. Read it to our Lyn when she was a little thing."

James pictures it: pink walls, cheap furniture for a child who would soon outgrow it, maybe a canopy over that plywood bed, for she was (is) his little princess. Some stuffed toy. Rabbit? Long ears, well worn. Lewis perched on the side of the bed, still in his suit, home late, shaking blood and human cruelty from his soul like a dog shaking off water so he can read to his little girl. 

"Did she like it?" 

"Yeah. Mostly the first bit though, with Rat and Mole. Thought Toad was stupid and deserved to go to prison, and the part in the forest scared her." 

"Terrifying," James agrees. He starts collecting their plates, but Lewis takes them off him, tells him firmly to sit, stay. "Woof," James replies. 

"You can read. I got that book off your bedside table, some Italian sounding bloke." 

James thinks about telling Lewis that he's really fine, that he can go home, that he doesn't need to be watched over. And he then he pulls out his book - the Italian sounding bloke is Umberto Eco - puts his feet up on the sofa, and reads.

The sun inches its way across the room. He pauses now and then to think of the past week, to try to reconstruct it from Lewis's point of view. He gets to the part where he started shouting at Lewis in the middle of street and starts to see why Lewis might be concerned: normally taciturn sergeant lies to his DI, tells everyone in a hundred yard radius how he, in essence, murdered his best friend. 

Is taciturn the word he wants? It's not one he would apply to himself, but he has heard other people apply it to him. It's not as popular as others (in descending order: tall, pasty, over educated, repressed, snotty), but it's a kind word, relatively speaking, and Lewis would be kind even in the privacy of his own head. 

What does Lewis think of him? He glances over to the small table, where Lewis is hunched over paperwork, probably for this case. For Will's suicide. For the people whom Zoe murdered. He tries to imagine how Lewis will write up the conclusion: _Did my back in carrying great hulking drugged sergeant down burning stairs._

It was so peaceful, lying there with Zoe. He felt warm and heavy and half in love (as if he knew what that meant). It was kind of her to give him the sedative, considering what he'd done to Will. She should've left him tied to a stake. Gunpowder at his feet was the very limit of kindness he deserved. 

He almost managed a few tears that night, but in the end it was all dry facial contortions, a mute apoplexy of grief and guilt. More guilt than grief. That must be why he can't cry. 

"Hathaway."

"Sir?"

"Something you want to share?" 

"Sir?"

"You haven't turned a page in half an hour." 

He turns a page. Lewis goes back to his report. 

*

He wakes with his book open across his chest, one arm flung out onto the coffee table, and the blanket tucked in around him. The sun is gone, but the blinds are drawn, the room's light contained so it doesn't leak out into the dark. 

"You've been out for hours," Lewis says. "Curry?" 

"After breakfast, I was expecting a four course meal with wine and three sorts of forks." His voice is rough. He sounds exhausted. He feels ambushed by the realization that he _is_ exhausted. 

"I only do breakfast, did it for the kids before school when I could. And I'm not a special fork sort of a person, you may've noticed. I can do wine with the curry though." 

"Beer's better with curry anyway." He frowns at the creases in his shirt and on the back of his hand where he tucked it between his cheek and the sofa cushion. His hand is partially asleep, and he flexes it open and closed while Lewis calls for the curry. 

He's allowed to go along to fetch it, Lewis informs him, but only if he waits in the car. 

He waits in the car. Rain dings against the windscreen. Each drop catches the streetlight and splinters into an infinite number of little wet candles. 

"Did you know a group of crows is called a murder of crows?" he asks, when Lewis returns with the curries. 

"Yes," Lewis says, cautious, waiting. 

"So what do you call two crows?" 

Lewis eyes him. "This better not be what I think it's going to be." 

"Only one way to find out, sir." 

"All right. What do you call two crows?" 

"Attempted murder." 

Lewis makes a pained noise. "I should take you straight home for that." 

"And send me to bed without curry," James agrees. He wonders where he's sleeping tonight. Lewis's house, or the pajamas would be unnecessary. Lewis seems the type to give up his bed to his guests, but James isn't a guest. He hopes he's not a guest. 

He's Lewis's sergeant. It's a peculiar thing to be, simultaneously less and more than a friend, sometimes little more than an extra body for Lewis to command, sometimes half of a whole. More rarely, as this week, dead weight.

"How are you feeling?" Lewis asks. There are days when James wonders if he is a little bit psychic. 

"Perfectly fit, sir. Are you giving up your bed tonight?" 

"Don't be daft. I already half killed myself carrying your scrawny arse down a mile of stairs, I'm not ruining my back on that sofa as well." 

James smiles to himself. All is briefly right with his world.

*

He sleeps wrapped up in Lewis's duvet on the sofa. It smells like Lewis, like his shampoo, his soap, his clothes, his warmth. It is so complete and visceral a scent that he pokes out his tongue to see if it tastes like Lewis too. The flaw there, of course, is that he doesn't know what Lewis tastes like. Probably not like cotton lint. 

He is in Lewis's house, protected by the bulwark of Lewis's duvet, wearing clothes Lewis chose for him. Why these pajamas? They weren't at the top of the drawer. The silk ones were on top. Flannel is warmer, more comforting. Or maybe Lewis felt choosing silk would send the wrong message, although James isn't at all sure what that message would be. 

Speaking of Lewis and his bulwarks, Innocent has said nothing to James about his behavior on this case, not even a sharp text message. Lewis hasn't told her. Is probably not going to tell her, if he hasn't by now. 

That swirls around in James's mind, and then he emerges from his duvet cocoon at something close to a run. He stops short outside Lewis's room. He can see Lewis, asleep with his back turned to the open door. 

It can wait until morning, can't it? He chews his thumbnail and then the meat of his thumb. He feels very much as though it can't. How many times in his life has Lewis been awakened by children and their late-night problems? James can't remember waking his own parents for anything, nightmare or illness or dread of the future. If he could manage till morning when he was six, why does it seem so hard now? 

"I'm not asleep," Lewis mumbles. "Get in here and tell me." 

James sits at the foot of the bed. "You have to tell Innocent. What I did. The extent of my involvement. She'll work it out on her own, Zoe obviously had reason to-- to do what she did. The same reason for me as for everyone else. Innocent knows I knew Will, she knows-- She didn't want me involved from the start." 

"And she was right, wasn't she?" 

"I don't know." 

Lewis sits up, cross but not angry. "You almost _died_ , you--" He rubs his eyes. "I know he was your mate. You felt you had to see it through." 

"Did you not listen to anything I said? I had to-- It was my fault," James says carefully, precisely, lest there be any remaining doubt. "That was why I had to see it through." 

Lewis sighs. James can see the glimmer of his eyes in the darkened room, but that's all. "I didn't tell Innocent because you're going to tell her. Not all of it, if you've got any sense, but enough. And then I'll talk her down when she hits the roof. It's not good, won't pretend it is, but it's not career ending either. Not the way it turned out." 

James twists his hands together. He used to pray like this, clutching, white-knuckled, as if he could impart physical force to the messages he sent Heavenward. Two thoughts arrive in his mind at once, both, like Athena, fully formed and heavily armed. The first is that he's on suicide watch. The second is that he wants to taste his DI's mouth. He doesn't know which shocks him more. 

Kiss. The word is kiss, but he shies away from it. Taste is safer. Staring at Lewis's mouth is not safe. He looks down at his hands again. 

"I won't do anything foolish, sir," he says. 

"I know." 

That's a lie, or James wouldn't be here. Maybe Lewis's uncertainty is justified. When James considers his own behavior, in particular his attempt to run back into a burning building, he does see some cause for concern. He's not the suicidal type, or he would've done it by now, but Lewis doesn't know that. Doesn't know him. Not really. 

He untwists his hands and rises, heading for the door. "Good night, sir." 

"Hathaway." 

"Yeah?" 

"Come back here a minute." 

James, ever obedient, returns to stand at his bedside. Lewis pulls on his sleeve until he sits down. Lewis lies on his side, propped on one elbow, and James just fits into the curve of his body. 

"You did a bad thing," Lewis says. "And now he can't forgive you for it."

Two little sentences. They hit James in the stomach, hard. They bend him double. He clasps his knees and rests his forehead on the backs of his hands. 

"That's the way it is sometimes. When you wait too long. Or when what you've done is too bad to forgive. You just have to live with it. People do it every day, and you will too." 

James nods desperately. This. This is what he needed. It hurts to hear, but it uncoils something in him. His heart pounds fiercely with a mix of terror and relief, strains toward Lewis like he is the answer to every question, the solution to every problem. James forces his breathing slower, forces his heart to remember its station in life. It's still a long time before he can trust his voice enough to answer. 

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." 

"Right. Off you go." 

James sits up straight. "I am going to do something foolish after all, I'm afraid," he says. "I hope you'll forgive me." 

He plants his hands on the mattress on either side of Lewis's face. He leans down and kisses him on the mouth. It's over quickly. He doesn't even get a good taste, just a touch of his tongue against closed lips. It's enough. 

Lewis doesn't shout at him, or laugh, or hit him. Of course. Only insecure bastards (like James) do that sort of thing. Lewis just lets him go. He wraps himself up in the duvet on the sofa again, prepared to wait for morning all night long. He's asleep in minutes.


End file.
